


to become the King of fish(ing)

by imightjustvomit



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Coronation, Fluff and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 04:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17419322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imightjustvomit/pseuds/imightjustvomit
Summary: On the day of his coronation, fully dressed to receive his father's crown and blessing, Noctis finds great comfort in the love of his advisor, strength in the pride of his friends, and is sent an unexpected, foul-tempered visitor from the great outdoors.





	to become the King of fish(ing)

**Author's Note:**

> For the charming kiriami-sama on tumblr! I'm posting it here too for easier access, I hope I captured what you wanted to read! Thank you for such a lovely prompt <3

As Ignis continues to fuss at his hair, dabbing in the tiniest pearls of gel and then swiping, combing and twisting until it looks just so, Noctis trie s very hard to empty his head and focus on nothing else but the familiar sensations.

The day was here. The guests invited, the venue chosen, the decorations up. A room had recently been allocated in which to store the hundreds of gifts every company in Insomnia had sent, and another had to be reserved for those being sent in from Altissia, Galahad and Tenebrae. They’d had to hire more staff to facilitate all the security scanning necessary.

An additional three cars now lined the garage of the Citadel.

The final preparation was him. A full month of practising his lines with Ignis daily, practising his walk as the Hand of the King guided him, practising his expressions – hours spent with Ignis swiping his hands down over his eyelids, and telling him to imagine the day so he could feel more comfortable once it arrived.

And now the day was here. He’d bathed, brushed his teeth once, and then again, brushed his hair until the strands had gained static and Ignis had pulled the brush away from his shaking hand. Now, they stood in his father’s dressing room and the reality of it all was hitting harder than he’d expected.

The day of his coronation was here.

  


With his thirtieth birthday now four months behind them, he’d assumed he would be more than ready. But then again, he never had learned to enjoy official events of any form, no matter how much his dad had assured him they would become less taxing with time.

“Your lower lip shall become quite chapped if you continue to treat it as a stress reliever, Noctis. There’s only so much damage the powers of Tenebraenchapstick can heal in hours alone.”

Pulled from his thoughts by the call of his name, he meets Ignis’ eyes. Usually able to steady him no matter the situation, he finds that he still can’t quite keep the nervous thrum from his blood, even with their lovely aid.

“Sorry, what?”

Ignis huffs and pats at the soft material of his silk underset, worn in preparation for his actual outfit to be put on over the top of it. “I wanted you to stop biting at your lower lip – unless you want to appear as though you’ve spent a few hours fooling around with a mystery lover when you appear on the live broadcast this evening.”

Noctis sighed. “I certainly wish I had.” He said, turning just enough to view himself in the full length (full wall, honestly) mirror to check his reflection for the hundredth time today. “I think I’d feel way better if they’d set aside some time for me to spend making out with my boyfriend.”

“There’ll be all the time in on Eos for making out once today is finished with. Coronation comes with a full week of vacation, after all.” Ignis says distractedly, stepping off of the raised podium on which Noctis had been directed to stand to adjust the blinds. “Though I’m not sure the fishing will be up to standard at this time of year, despite this lovely weather.”

The December day was beautiful and Noctis exhaled slowly, staring out onto the horizon of his city-to-be. The silver skyline was unmatched in the harsh winter light – white dusted the tops of skyscrapers, tiny red lights marking their tops. Ancient buildings stood beside the modern forms of apartment blocks and multi-story shopping malls.

Hundreds of feet below them where they stood on one of the centre floors of the Citadel, in the parks and on roads and streets, life continued as normal for the citizens he would soon be responsible for.

Thinking of the magnitude of it all sent Noctis’ stomach fluttering again, so he turned his head from the view to stare at the reflection of the royal dressing room instead. The closets filled with suits for all occasions. The rolls of fabric on display. The plush, moss green carpet intersected by patches of wood before the mirrors.

He could remember feeling it sink under him where he kneeled to play with figures and toy cars while his dad stood, straight and collected on the very podium he now occupied as a bustle of tailors worked on him. He’d been comfortable and immune to the alleged importance of it all, in a world of his own imagination.

Then hating the room when the floor worked against the wheels of his chair, forcing him to allow his father to push him. Turning his eyes away from the sight of his own reflection. Each appointment a punishment of being fussed over and looked at when all he’d wanted was to hide under his covers, even after he moved on to crutches instead.

Scowling at the intricate whorls in the designs of the wood panelling in his teens, phone clutched tightly in his hand where yet another text from his father that began with ‘ _I’m sorry Noctis,_ ’ sat open and un-replied to. Feeling suffocated and denied and like everything was just unfair. So unfair.

Laughing as Prompto jumped around him, striking poses and pulling faces for the click of his camera while Gladio bashed on him for being a string bean in a voice too fond and proud to be serious, his tattooed chest puffed with pride in his newly finished fatigues.

But those were memories, and the idea of standing here to be fitted for the beginning of the rest of his life had always been a far off future. Something imagined, something considered. To feel it as reality now – to know it would join his memories as a part of his past and not his future – was both heavy and invigorating at once.

He wanted to lay down in bed, and he wanted to run and warp until this restless energy left him. He wanted to spar with Gladio, fast and harsh, and he wanted to disappear with Prompto, run to the arcade to play, or to the park to think with his head in his friend’s lap while the _Justice Monsters_ theme played tinny and quiet above him.

  


Soft, smooth hands slid their way around his jawline, short nails playing across the neatly trimmed hair of his beard. Thumbs brushed over his cheekbones, fingers tangled just slightly in the soft strands of his hair.

Green eyes flashed before him then closed, and so he followed.

The press of their joined lips was warm and smooth, chaste and the most comforting thing he could have asked for in that moment. The air of the room was silent around them and he sighed through his nose when Ignis tilted his head up and back, drawing untraceable patterns on the soft skin behind his ears. It was impossible to focus on anything else, and he was grateful for that. So, so grateful. For the distraction, for the patience, for his advisor. For his luck, to have been able to fall in love with someone as amazing as Ignis Scientia.

‘ _Gods, I love him_ ’, Noctis thought, ‘ _so much. So_ _damn_ _much_.’ Ignis pulled back and the depth of his eyes – a green prettier than any other shade he’d seen – was filled with love. Filled with pride and adoration. His chest felt full, and some of his nerves seeped away.

“I love you, you know?” He said, sounding quieter than he’d expected himself to.

Ignis smiled and tapped a finger against the side of his lips. “I love you too, Noctis. My prince,” another kiss, pressed to his forehead with a smile and a whisper. “My king.”

  


Pulling apart, Noctis felt invigorated. His reflection met his gaze and he nodded to himself. “Okay,” he said, “okay, if you were aiming to make me feel ready, mission accomplished, Specs.”

Ignis nodded. “Well, my aim was actually that and more if I’m to be honest. Try not to bite your lips any further if you please, your highness.”

Noctis’ expression crinkled slightly with confusion in the mirror. “What?”

Ignis’ reflection stepped off the podium wordlessly. Noctis raised a brow until he caught sight of a previous shine that hadn’t been present coating his lips. Rubbing them together, he lifted a finger to slide across the pink skin and found it glided – and smelled faintly of pears and aloe.

.. Lipbalm?

“Ignis!” He called in a scandalised tone, grinning wide and when Ignis chuckled his smugness was audible.

Before he could chastise him for pulling such a sly move in the wake of his _very serious_ moment of emotional, mid-life-crisis style turmoil, there was a knock at the door.

“Are we decent in there? I’ve come to offer my experience. And perhaps to meddle, should I be allowed the opportunity.” The voice was old and endlessly familiar to many, and Ignis felt a warm fondness as his Prince visible perked up at the sound of his father’s voice.

Double checking his lips to make sure no traces of previous smudging was left behind, he called “Please come in, your majesty.”

The door opened and Regis entered, cane in hand and far from alone – behind him was the usual retinue of tailors but far more heavily burdened than usual.

Noctis had been about to say something to his dad, but catching sight of the massive, military grade box being wheeled in behind him he blanches. “Dad, what is that thing for?” He asks, staring at it like he’s not particularly sure he wants to be in the room with it once it’s opened.

Regis pokes it with his cane. “It’s the ceremonial coronation dress. Worn by myself, my father, his father, and all Kings and Queens of the Lucian line before us… Well,” he adds, with a click of his tongue, “if you’re to believe it’s the original itself. But if it’s not, it’s certainly a nigh perfect replica. And authentic for at least the last 5 generations or so.”

Noctis looks at it again, the protective casing still startling but certainly making more sense. “It’s not going to smell of anything, is it?”

Regis chuckles. “No – while it certainly didn’t make any trips to the city laundrette, it is clean thoroughly by hand with professional methods, aired, safely disinfected and placed back into storage after only one day per use.”

“Over two-hundred years old, then..” Ignis mutters, already feeling somewhat apprehensive regarding the strength of the fabric. “Will adjustments be made to it, your majesty?” Ignis asks the king, thinking back to the large height differences present in previous rulers.

“Yes, small and reversible lifts can be made to stop large amount of trailing fabric. But no large changes are possible – I’m afraid for myself and Noctis, this means there’s quite a bit of sleeve and trail to remain mindful of. It’s very lightweight fabric though, which I found myself immensely grateful for through the day of my own coronation.”

Regis looks happily nostalgic at that, a common sight these days but thinking of previous standards set high by his ceremony-tycoon of a father is the last thing Noctis wants to do to himself right now, so he switches to watching the servants unpack the outfit from the metal casing instead.

  


They treat it like a ceremony in and of itself. The box is solid steel, dark and clearly aged with enough thickness to even survive a fire, Noctis thinks. The lock is – ah, the _multiple_ locks are combination codes, and then beneath the first steel plate.. there is another. Beneath that, some form of metal netting, and beneath that there is a very soft inside, the silk looking to be as high quality as the blankets Noctis’ own cradle had been lined with.

The leader of the group is a much older man and Noctis instantly recognizes him as Bartholomew, the head tailor of their staff and the designer behind over half of all the custom outfits his father and he had worn to events over the past decades. His wrinkles deepen in concentration as he pulls a pair of pristine white gloves from the pocket of his silver vest, an action which the rest of the servants nervously follow.

He wheels the box closer, and once it is directly beside Noctis he stops. Carefully – as though picking up a sheet of wet papier-mache that may rip any second – he lifts it, and Noctis is given his first look at what he’s to wear.

  


It takes over an hour to finish dressing him up, even with a whole team of highly experienced staff dedicated to the task.

It’s truthfully a very handsome outfit, Ignis concludes. Or at least, Noctis looks stunningly handsome in it.

As he does in everything. From a lazy day outfit of all black, T-shirt to boots to the finest suits, Noctis’ natural grace and beauty always shines. He’s handsome. He’s gorgeous.

Even in his Chocobo carnival T-shirt and fishing cargos.

But, to digress.

The outfit is made up of silvers, blacks and blues with gold accents, true to royal Lucian fashion. It’s not a suit but a robe, layered and regal, falling perfectly now that all adjustments have been made. Regis and Noctis are fairly similarly in stature, though his love stands nine centimetres shorter than his father and is of a more slender, streamlined build. The effect is absolutely dashing on him and while Regis had certainly looked powerfully regal in the photos he’d seen of his coronation Noctis brings a more elegant, graceful feel to it.

Or perhaps Ignis is fantasizing in broad daylight again. Either way, the pride he feels burning within him at the sight of his lifelong friend – his charge, from playmate prince to where they are today – stand tall and proud, dressed to accept his birthright and become the King his blood had always promised him to be is immense and overwhelming. He’s worried he’ll cry during the ceremony. He could probably cry right now.

  


Noctis takes in his finalized appearance, throwing glances at Ignis to test for his feelings too. The robes are feather-light but solid in colour, the black of the top layer truly a pitch shade. The sleeves are long and hang open to accommodate where he will need to clasp his hands and fold them to his chest while he ascends the dais. The inner layer is a deep blue, contrasting the black very nicely and visible all the way down to his feet where the fabric pools over his dress shoes. Along the edges in strips, shining gold lace is hemmed onto the robe. He looks like a king from a fairy tale.

  


Ignis’ expression is… somewhat dreamy, Noctis concludes with warmth in his cheeks. Maybe he’s reading too much into it, but. Now isn’t the time to look a gift horse bolstering his confidence in the mouth, so he rolls with that thought.

He’s never felt so decked out. His ears aren’t pierced, as he could never be bothered to worry about adding jewellery to his outfits but one held on by cushioned clamps has been added to his right ear – a purple crystal, perfectly cut and the colour of amethyst glitters as it twirls on its own axis. Blue gems adorn his left ear, hooked over it by a thin metal band following the curve of the cartilage. His hair has been styled so that the longer parts flow backwards and stay there and on his right side there’s a tuft pinned higher – a place for the crown to sit.

Ignis comes closer to stand on the floor beside the podium, holding a small oblong box. “You look amazing, darling,” he says, quiet enough that the bustling team behind them discussing changes and Regis’ outfit won’t be privy to his words. “I can only hope the outfit I’m given will allow me to match your splendour.”

Noctis feels his face warm. “You have all my splendor and way more, Iggy,” he murmurs, so quiet that Ignis feels as though it could only be the two of them here. “I’ve never felt as worthy of my place as I do when you’re with me.”

It’s too much to respond to as he wants. His throat feels tighter though in a nice way, and he would love nothing more than to take Noctis hand and press his lips against his knuckles to show his appreciation. Instead, Ignis takes his wrist to begin adding touch of his own to the outfit

It will be hidden beneath the long, hanging sleeves of the robe he knows. But he doesn’t need anyone else to see it. It’s only for him. Inside the box is a bracelet, silver adornments and royal black silk twine. On it are half skulls; matched to his necklace’s pendant and made of the same silver-steel mix. He carefully slips it on and pulls the drawstring to tighten it in place.

He nudges at one of the skulls. “You don’t have to wear it during the ceremony if it makes you nervous that you may be questioned regarding it,” his eyes drift up to meet blue, “but I admit, just knowing that you have it on… it would make me quite happy.”

He may not be able to take the role of Queen in this monumental event, hidden as their relationship was from any others than their most trusted family to avoid meddling and tabloids and all other issues that arise when one is in love with those of the royal blood. But this was a sacred thing between them, a way to show they were joined. A sign of him against Noctis’ wrist. A sign of Noctis around his neck. Directly above their pulses as though their hearts could beat in time.

Noctis curled his hand within Ignis’ hold in answer.

King Regis noticed asked them if they were prepared to make a grand entrance, and together they nodded.

* * *

  


Noctis is on the dais. The room around him smells fresh and airy, all windows thrown open and every inch of the room smothered in flowers and gossamer, drifting in the cool winter breeze that finds its way in.

To the left of the throne, dressed in matching outfits of silver, white and blue the Fleuret family look ephemeral. Sylva’s crown glints clean and clear, as thought it were made of ice; a stark contrast to dark silver gleam of the crown awaiting him. Despite this, both are symbols of immense power, and even greater responsibility. She looks content. Her face is warm and when he meets her eyes, still nervous and struggling not to fidget she seems to notice it instantly.

Her soft smile turns to a certain, set expression of confidence. Her eyes are sharp and as piercing as the ice of the Glacian her family is so closely allied with. Her body language speaks of immovable certainty and with that change, she directs it to him. Her wrinkles are an omen for the wisdom he sees glinting in her eyes like a dangerous knowledge kept close, to be used only by those selected to wield it.

Her eyes seem to speak.

‘You have our support.’ They say, harsh but not cruel in the slightest. ‘The Fleuret line stands with you.’

He takes that strength into him. He still his hands and rolls his shoulders. He can do this. He was born into, raised for it. He knows what’s expected of him.

Luna, standing beside her, is teary eyed and her cheeks are damp. He can’t see from here and the fabric would be light enough to obscure any wetness anyway, but he thinks she may have been using her sleeve to wipe away tear tracks. Behind her hand where it is raised to her mouth, he can see her smile is nearly too wide to cover. The joyous crinkle to her eyes is infectious and he smiles giddily back, glad that the only people in front of him are friends and family who won’t judge him for such an expression.

He knows that someday very soon, Luna will inherit that Crown too. Like a brother and sister they will work together to keep Eos safe in their hands. To guide the people. Suddenly, his previous apprehension seems silly, and as it melts a thrum of excitement fills the space occupied.

He knows that she too – currently an appropriate two steps from her guard Nyx Ulric, despite how close he knows they would truly wish to be – understands having to hide her love. Ulric is unwilling, she had said in her letters, to allow any form of political judgement to be cast upon her family and his people as a result of his cheeky lack of respect for bloodline purity (his words, apparently) and as such had asked that they remain private for just a little longer. Until Luna is Queen and there is no chance left of a council attempting to question her word and choice.

When Noctis had last asked him during a trip around Eos that had landed him a visit to the soldier’s home nation to try out the formidable fishing and experience the unique culture it had to offer, Nyx had slapped him on the back and grinned saying that he could hardly be blamed for falling head over heels for such a force of a woman. Noctis had easily agreed.

Nyx shoots him an encouraging grin and a sneaky thumbs up and he smiles back at the secret couple and dips his head. Noctis is happy to know that he is not alone. If both he and Luna reveal their loves simultaneously, creating an issue out of it will be near impossible. A new norm will be set.

Ravus is tall as ever on the other side of his mother, and despite the soft colours of their outfits he’s still as intimidating as Noctis has ever seen him. He looks stern and serious, but beneath that Noctis feels warmed to see respect. Dipping his head in a nod, Ravus shows his approval.

  


Before the throne itself stands Regis. His face is lined with age but just like Sylva, it does nothing but enhance the strength gained in age and experience. He looks wise. He looks proud. He looks like he’s one inch of court-hardened restraint away from hobbling over to envelope Noctis in a hug, which would be embarrassing but Noctis knows he would love it anyway.

To the right stands Clarus, as tall and proud as ever. An uncle to Noctis, and the goal post which Gladio had always idolised in every way; his own Shield now stands beside his father and the look on his face is fiercely loyal, though his long hair pulled back in a ponytail certainly is a marked difference between him and his dad. Prompto stands at Gladio’s side with his camera in hand and Noctis is unsurprised to see his best friend is fighting back tears.

(The conversation where he had made it clear that Prompto would absolutely be wanted beside the throne when this day came had ended in happy tears too. Happy ones. And hugging.)

  


Directly before his father stood Ignis. Having been his choice for the one to place the crown upon his head (or rather, pin it into his hair as had always been the case for the Lucian royal family) he had also been given an outfit. A robe alike his own, but the fabric carried a clear sheen to it as though it would slip though his hands like water were he to touch it. A light grey shawl covered the purple hue of the main body piece (flashier than his own but well matched to his coeurl-print loving advisor) matched the crystal’s glow, and a dark gold belt gave the outfit a more defined form than his own.

Over his ears hung white crystals, sparkling in the light and a gold chain hung yet another white crystal against his forehead. Visible in the dip of the robes opening, laying against collarbones he had spent many hours tracing and tasting in the midst of the nights when it was only them and the quiet of their bed, was his pendant. The sight of it made him acutely aware of his own, as though it were heated against the sensitive skin of his wrist.

He lifted his right arm just slightly as he met Ignis eyes and allowed his sleeve to slip back minutely. Just enough for the two of them to understand. To show his thoughts without words, not matter how much he would like to stride forward and profess that he didn’t intend to rule alone for any extended amount of time.

Ignis’ jade eyes are clear and bright, his smile beautiful like no other. In his hands he held a cushion and on top of it sat his father’s crown. Polished and once a sign of all that scared him but now in the hands of his lover, beneath the love filled gaze which had always cherished him as though it were inevitable that he would become a man worthy of the title of King, it didn’t hold that fear for him any longer. It no longer seemed like a punishment nor the end of a happy life.

It looked like a gift.

  


A bell sounds. Noctis closes his eyes and draws himself tall.

He ascends the steps.

* * *

  


The ceremony finishes and Noctis finds (to his immense relief) that he feels the same as before. No fearful new weight upon his shoulders, nor feeling of being alone. He had quietly confided this to his father when they descended the steps to join the celebration and the soft laughter he’d received in response had made him feel almost bashful of his earlier worries.

A weight shared among friends such as his own is hardly a weight at all, after all.

  


They’re all gathered at the end of the banquet table, Ignis at his arm positively glowing with pride in a way that Noctis can’t help but mimic. The atmosphere is jovial and upbeat, the pressures of the morning now passed as the party enters full swing with good music and great food around him.

He’s moments from popping a very tasty looking shrimp into his mouth, leaning forward to avoid the horrific prospect of dripping the thick pink sauce covering it onto his flowing outfit when Prompto skips up behind him. He lands a fast pat to his ass in a move that will have every reporter in the room spending the next few years bemoaning that they had been too distracted by the food to be filming.

“So-! How’s it feel to be king, your Majesty?” The blond asks gleefully.

Noctis delicately puts his fine china plate plate back down on the table, tiny silver fork and pink morsel on top, with movements clean and clear as though he were in a model shoot. He then promptly sticks a hand into the yellow tufts of the photographer’s hair.

Prompto yelps and swats at the hand. Too busy semi-tussling, Ignis is the one to notice the head of Local Lucian Times fumbling with his camera as though he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. The advisor subtly kicks at Argentum’s right red-heeled boot and motions his head towards the incoming possibility of unwanted front page material.

Prompto ducks away from the hand ruining his perfect styling and before the flash of the reporter’s camera can go off, he swiftly dips the position into a kneel. One hand to his heart and his head dipped, he looks every inch as regal as the past and present kings around him.

The flash goes off, and captures nothing more than a lovely shot.

“Ah. Amazing timing.” Regis compliments, relaxing the polite pose he had flashed like a second nature. Clarus holds a plate of skewered cherry tomatoes and pops one into his mouth while holding eye contact with the camera wielding man, and when he crunches it between his teeth Ignis snorts and sips at his champagne glass. The man flees back into the crowd.

Prompto stands and this time he looks more serious. “Buddy..” he says, placing a faintly freckled hand on Noctis’ shoulder. Noctis smiles at him and clasps his hand on top.

“Don’t worry about a personal speech, Prom. I get it.”

Prompto looks wobbly lipped again and this time another camera easily catches the hug the two best friends share. Noctis wraps his arm around his best friend and enjoys the contact, so happy to know he’s made Prompto this proud. Prompto pulls away with a slight sniffle and red eyes.

“Um, thanks, Your majesty,” his tone is joking but the way he wipes at his eyes shows he means it, his baby blues glued to the marble flooring and Noctis pats him on the shoulder with a grin as he composes himself again.

Two sets of heavy boots approach him from behind and this time he’s prepared for the joint slaps his back receives. Gladio draws into sight and even the gruff “Hey.” he gives sounds pleased. Gladio’s gaze lingers on the crown tucked into his dark hair and he lifts his hands to adjust it self consciously.

“The new look suits you well, Noctis,” Clarus affirms from his left. “and I’m glad to see your father with his hair down after all this time.”

“It’s quite a relief to know I shan’t be spending any time worrying about pinning it in every morning from now on, truly.” Regis chuckles and takes another bite of his appetiser, Clarus moving to his side.

A round of laughter is audible from the other side of the room. The floral scents are strongest towards the west face of the hall, with sylleblossoms bought as a sign of respect arranged beautifully along both tables and walls. In the middle of a large group of lords and ladies stands the Nox Fleuret family.

  


Sylva and Luna are enrapturing the crowd, with the adoring gazes of many pinned to them while they speak. They’re too far off for Ignis to hear what they’re saying, but he follows the actions of Sylva’s hands and sees her readjusting the hairpin that the Caelum line had gifted to lady Lunafreya upon the beginning of their stay, gently folding her daughter’s hair under her careful ministrations.

Ignis is surprised when the group’s sights land on them. They dart first to Noctis, then to Regis – and then another laugh makes a round. Regis sighs behind him.

“I think,” he says, wearily, “that stories of my own coronation are being recounted.”

Clarus laughs. “I did advise that you ought to have her swear to secrecy, Reggie.”

Noctis, who had been sniffing suspiciously at a wine glass handed to him by Ignis (“ _Noct, you have my word that it is the sweetest wine here,_ ”) looks up in time to see Sylva lock gazes with his dad. The Queen smiles, near playful.

Then she winks flirtatiously.

  


Ignis catches the hem of Noctis’ robe sleeve before it can brush into the serving bowl of Quillhorn soup.

“Ignis,” Noctis says, leaning in close to whisper urgently into Ignis’ ear, “did you _see_ that?!”

Ignis hums. As though to whisper back, he raises his hand and covers his lips against Noctis’ ear.

He places a kiss there and then leans away. The dumbstruck look on the new king’s face is certainly loveable, he thinks with happy consideration.

  


Struck into shock by two unbelievable events in a row, Noctis struggles not to gape like an idiot. He turns to his father for answers only to have his confusion worsened by seeing his dad, the ever unflappable and flawless leader of keeping a straight face even in the worst of discussions, looking somewhat flustered.

And slightly pink, across his cheeks and even beneath his beard when he looks closely.

Clarus mutters something. Regis prods him swiftly in the side, though the power behind the move is lost in the multiple layers worn by his bulky Shield and he hides his face in his champagne glass once more.

* * *

  


As the party draws to its midway point and the sunset begins to turn the light of the room a syrupy gold, the time for the celebration to move to the rooftop of Caelum Via approaches; the luxury resort and hotel, named after their line and sponsored by his father, gave them a safe and comfortable place for visiting dignitaries to stay that didn’t come with the same security restrictions as the Citadel itself.

Ignis ran through the schedule, fingers quick and sure as he tapped at his phone screen. “The fireworks will begin at eight o’clock sharp, as long as the weather follows the predicted reports. Leonis will be driving our group in the Star of Lucis, and your father and his retinue will be taking the Regalia.”

Gladio swallows a mouthful of cygillan crab, the mini plates dwarfed in his massive hands. “There’s gonna be canoodling in the backseat.” He says with disinterest, lifting another forkful of juicy white meat to his mouth while being careful to avoid catching any melted butter in his beard.

Noctis makes a noise in his throat, accompanied by a scrunched up face that Prompto instantly snaps a shot of. Ignis thoughtfully sips at his wine; too sweet for his taste but Noctis had turned up his nose, and despite his comfortable upbringing and the occasion itself he hadn’t wanted to be wasteful. Pressing his lips against the same spot where Noctis had taken his own sip from had a certain novelty to it too. An indirect kiss of sorts, if he were to be romantic about it.

“Perhaps,” he says, voice unaffected and thoughtful, “it would be nice to have sylleblossoms grown in our own palace gardens.” Noctis shoots him a look at that but the effect of the usually powerful puppy pout is much lessened by himtaking another bite from his plate of grilled trevally.

  


“Okay, enough.” He says, performing the complicated manoeuvrer involved in safely putting down a plate on a crowded table while wearing robes with sleeves that dangled with a foot of additional fabric. “I don’t want to hear anything else about my dad. Nothing about sylleblossoms, nothing about,” he scowls at Gladio, “canoodling–,”

“Gonna have to wipe down those leather seats-” Gladio manages before Ignis stamps on his foot to prevent that disaster of a sentence from finishing.

Prompto’s hand shoots up as though in class. “What about macking, your majesty? Can we discuss that?” he chirps cheerfully, with a kissy face added for effect.

The effect is annoyance.

The freshly crowned king gives his first decree. “There will be,” he says in a voice as grave as the Draconian’s, “no talk of _macking_.”

  


Ignis tuts. “Shame. I had plans.”

Noctis halts, and raises his hand palm out.

“I will make an allowance for my advisor, as I trust him not to lead me into a conversation that’ll give me nightmares.”

Ignis smiles. “Thank you, your majesty,” he bends in a shallow bow, “I vow to use that trust to create pleasant dreams for you, and nothing more.” Noctis grins.

“Every dream caused by you is pleasant, Specs.”

“Permission to complain about heebie jeebies, King Noct?” Prompto asks lightly. Noctis turns to him.

“Granted, but remember that complaining about anything I do is treason.”

“No problem! I uh, withdraw my request.” He skips over to the table again. “What’cha think is the spiciest thing here?” He asks, picking up and plate and proceeding to fill his plate as Gladio points to the dishes made by the Galahadian chefs.

A shrill chime sounds from Gladio’s phone with the name ‘LEONIS’ flashing on the screen, and he excuses himself to take the call.

  


Noctis steps close to Ignis, swaying to bump against his side. “Is there gonna be a photo shoot later, Iggy? I want to have it before I get too tired and start looking my age.”

The weight is comfortable against his side, so Ignis steps in close; if any singular part of his job were to be his favourite aside from it allowing him to be beside Noctis in general, then it was the proximity the station allowed.

Advisors were expected to whisper. Their conversations were expected to be private. He luxuriates in the citrus scent of Noctis’ cologne, so much sharper than the sweet perfume of the flowers around them. “You’ve been handsome at every age, my love,” he says, low and loving, tracking his eyes over the lovely sight of Noctis’ chest beneath the thin blue fabric.

Tailored just for him, it follows the curves of his pectorals and shoulders just so.

“But if you’re worried about looking tired, you need not be. The plan is for you to change before we depart for the fireworks, and so the shoot is arranged just before then.”

Noctis fights the temptation to wrap his arm around his advisors hips. Noctis motions to their clothing and jewellery. “I mostly want a picture of us together dressed like this. Matching.”

Across the room, he sees Iris’ girlfriend pull the very move he’s wistfully imagining and more, her hand tugging the Amicitia woman close and gripping securely to ward away the eyes of an Altissian noble who’d chosen the wrong place to sniff around for connections.

Her green eyes are vicious without effort and her silver hair carried the winter vibes of her homeland as the man excused himself in a tangle of nerves, likely to find the nearest source of wine.

Gladio returns from the same direction, dodging around the man as he flees – luckily for him, Gladio evidently hadn’t seen the previous interaction. Just because they all knew Miss Highwind had it handled didn’t mean Gladio wouldn’t take the chance to flex his Big Brother traits.

He pockets his phone, addressing Noctis. “Sounds like they’re ready for you guys to head over to balcony for the photo shoot so you can leave early. They want the royals to get in through security at the hotel first.”

Noctis nods and is about to wave Prompto over (he has some poses he’d like to get with his advisor that only his personal photographer would be able to see) but before he can get his attention, something else catches his own.

  


  


A large, dark shape is obscuring one of the windows. The distance makes it hard to make out anything aside from that it’s vaguely oblong: the throne room is easily the largest room within the Citadel and the bright yellow backlighting coming in from outside does a great job of obscuring any details.

Then, the shape moves.

It expands.

“Oh,” Noctis says as what he had initially thought to be something inanimate, four foot tall and one foot wide turned out to be far, far larger than that. With a wing span of at least thirteen foot and around five feet of height, this was clearly not one of the friendly Insomnian songbirds he was used to seeing nesting along the sills of his home. And it definitely wasn’t inanimate.

“Oh _**fuck**_ ,” he says in a rush before he thinks to censor himself, “that thing had better not come in here-”

“ _Language!_ ” Ignis stops mid sentence to Gladio to reprimand him with a sharp tongue but he too, quickly catches sight of the creature now staring the room down like an Astral from above; unafraid and fully aware that it holds all the cards in this situation. Its wings bristle with power, and Ignis swallows. “Ah.”

Noctis doesn’t need to be any closer to it to understand what it means to do.

“ _Oa’h_ _ **f**_ _ **fff**_ _\--_ ’!” Prompto yelled incoherently through a mouthful of chili-con-carne, coughing up a few grains and thinking to swallow before trying again. “Oh _shit_ guys that is the biggest Thunderoc I have _ever_ seen, is it gonna--?!”

“Yeah, it’s gonna.” Gladio says resigned, moments before it absolutely does.

  


With all the power provided by a sudden dive and enough strength to break a human arm in wing muscle, the Thunderoc swoops into the room, shrieking viciously like a creature of war. All chance of evacuating guests without creating panic evaporates as everybody screams in right back at it, fleeing in every direction as the massive bird swoops to and fro over the room like an angry pendulum.

He’s seen many before, and had taken on a whole flock with ease – while wearing fatigues and combat boots. Surrounded by dirt and mud with all the room in the world to warp, fling weapons, while well protected by a Celestriad handed to him by his Ignis before the battle even began. When he had been expecting to fight.

But this is a new situation. His own family aside, the guests are completely unused to combat and probably won’t take well to a large sword being flung over their heads, though he does get as far as crystals clustering over his palm before he reaches that conclusion.

The bird hits the wall, then bounces off a window but it barely even seems to notice. Flinging itself from the perch along the wall, it lands on the centrepiece chandelier and gets to work becoming entangled in the decorative item, and then shredding its way out.

  


He hears his dad shout for the Crownsguard to direct the guests closest to the door out of the room, and those too far away are already wedging themselves beneath the food covered tables without need for guidance. In the center of the room an old man lays flat on the ground with his eyes closed and a sigil of Ramuh clutched in his shaking hands.

Where the Fleurets stand, a large number of guests have gathered to cower behind the Queen of Tenebrae, her placid expression seeming a stronger defence than any table.

While Luna is having a great deal of success calming her own group out of their panic, Ravus seems to be bewildered by the several women now clutching at his arms though he too, is doing his best to assure them all will be well.

Noctis feels a tug on his armiger and behind him, Prompto’s Quicksilver appears in his hands with a flash. He looks uncertain and whips his head around for guidance, movements jittery and trigger finger clearly itching to go.

“Should I? Ya’ know, like-”

“ _No_ , Prompto, under absolutely no bloody circumstances should you-!”

Gladio interrupts. “Hold on Iggy, I know we don’t want more panic but if that thing decides to strike with more than its claws..” Gladio warns, watching the feathers of the beast carefully for the telltale signs of static build-up. He’s been on the receiving end before. There had only been one Celestriad, after all.

The bird finally frees itself and in a shower of broken glass it stretches to full width on the now mostly bare metal frame of the chandelier. Its focus suddenly sharpens, head turned sideways. With a beat of its wings it takes flight and circles the room, and with a vicious, echoing caw two actions happen simultaneously.

Just as it pulls the turn back towards the side of the room Noctis and his friends are in with ridiculous agility, it poops, the momentum carrying the dangerous projectile into a mystery direction.

Then instantly after that it tucks into a pencil dive like a swimming champion going for gold and aims directly for the table behind the King. With colour vision but absolutely no knowledge of human delicacies, the wild animal hits eye level to sink its claws into the pile of red, supposed meat – only to land in the royal-event-sized glass bowl of bright red jello.

“Okay, okay fuck-” Noctis can’t believe this turn of events but with chunks of jello flying everywhere, the table now looks like a crime scene and it’s only a moments fast-thinking by Ignis that allows him to dodge a wingful of spray directed his way, pulled tight against his chest and spun around so that Ignis’ custom made robes take the staining damage rather than his own.

“Okay, should I do it now?” Prompto yells with exasperation and panic, trailing his gun over the thing as it clumsily and furiously tramples over the entire table, snapping at anything stupid enough to be within reach of its sharp beak.

“Hold off!”, Gladio barks, “It looks like Ulric has something better.”

Just as the Thunderoc hops onto a plate reamed with salad and fish and begins shredding at the food beneath it, Nyx Ulric comes dashing over with a net in hand still taking form in the way that items pulled from the armiger do. Behind him, Regis’ hand is still clustered in blue from pulling it out, though Noctis had told him just to give it away and buy a new one next time they went fishing together.

It’s hand woven, the professional kind used for fishing among the islands of the guard’s homeland. With a look of a well practised man in competition with the wilds themselves, Nyx lines up his shot.

The Thunderoc is having none of it.

With a whoop of shock (the least threatening noise it’s made since it crashed the coronation) it takes off, but this time it has something grasped in its talons. A true amazing catch both for the bird and the fisherman who’d managed to reel it in – a massive, oily Regal Arapaima. Covered in hot spices and fried to perfection, the Citadel’s chefs had left it whole under Ignis’ instruction, as he’d been the only one among them to have had the privilege of preparing one before.

Nyx wasn’t done. Burdened, his target was even slower now and he re-aligned his shot, took aim, and hurled the weighted net through the air with the prowess of a man from a family line knowledgable in the art.

The Thunderoc startled badly as the net fell across its face, rearing back with powerful wing beats that sent gusts through the room but did little to dislodge it from the trap as it tangled around it. In one last desperate move it spun in the air, letting go of the large fish and instantly beginning to fall to the ground.

  


Just as the bird hit the marble with a heavy thud and a pissed off, but uninjured, whoop a wet THWACK resounded throughout the room and Noctis felt all the breath leave his chest as though he’d been hit with the world’s heaviest whiffle bat. He didn’t stand a chance, taken off guard, and he went over like a tumbled anak, limbs akimbo.

His arms flew up as his head hit the floor.

His vision swims when he opens his eyes not to the gasps of relief he’d been expecting, but to ones of shock and, perhaps horror. The back of his head hurts from hitting the floor but it’s nothing more than a bump, and he regains awareness quickly.

He’s laying flat on his back, and to the side he can see his crown hadn’t held on through the impact, having landed beside Ignis’ feet on top of the trailing fabric of his outfit.

Ignis, who looks positively frozen.

Noctis freezes in place too.

Throwing himself up from reclining to upright at what could possibly be the fastest speed in all his thirty years of life, he looks down to the thick, heavy and far too slimy object clasped to his chest. Against his robes. Against the endlessly valuable, ancient robes that his father had worn to his coronation, and his father before that, and probably all their fathers before that.

In his lap sits the Arapaima. Oil slips over his fingers and its blank eyes stare apologetically up at him.

It’s missing scales. And most of the spice dressing.

Looking back down at his shirt, he can feel the grease has soaked through to his skin and a mess of spices coloured in a range of red to orange to yellow smear like neon against the blacks and blue of the fabric.

He finds that he is missing neither scales nor spices.

Grounded but prepared to brawl its way out, the Thunderoc whoops angrily.

* * *

The trip back to the dressing room had been short but painful, with at least three servants seeing him despite his best efforts. It was closer than his own room though, and had a moderately sized en-suite bathroom to allow for people to wash and change immediately into their next outfit.

The King sits in the bathtub with his head in his hands, the crown on the bathroom sink beside the bottle of lavender bubble bath, and tries to forget the memory of what had just befallen him.

Ignis is kneeled beside him. A towel is folded against the hard tile floor to keep it from being uncomfortable to his knees as he works at simultaneously cleaning and comforting his lover.

“You don’t need to be embarrassed. It was through no fault of your own, darling.” He says kindly, lathering some pine forest shampoo into the beautifully smooth, midnight hair he so loved. Dry or damp, it was a joy to play with. “You didn’t trip or forget your words. I doubt anybody short of an Astral could have predicted this.”

Noctis sighed, pearly bubbles from the bath fluffing away with the heavy breath. The water was warm and had steamed up the advisor’s glasses, so he’d removed them. The steam had ruined the styling from his hair too, so he’d resigned himself to restyling at the same time as Noct did, as soon and he managed recover from the incident.

“ _Haaaaaa…_ …” Noctis sighs again, dramatic but genuine and Ignis scratches at his scalp in sympathy.

“Perhaps…” he starts, lowering his hands from his face to accept the offered squeegee and scrubbing absent-mindedly at his chest. “Perhaps that was.. revenge, or something. For all the fishing.”

Ignis snorts, checks the temperature of the shower spray and begins rinsing the shampoo out. “I doubt that, your highness. Thunderocs are not known for having a sense of justice when it comes to their own hunting, after all.”

Noctis turns and sits to face Ignis as he begins gently smoothing conditioner through his hair. “Maybe it was Leviathan. Maybe she’s.. pissed about me taking fish from her ocean. Or something.”

Ignis drags his fingers through Noct’s hair, making sure to pull the conditioner through the roots as well. His voice is dry. “Or something.”

Noctis leans his damp cheek against the side of the tub. “Well, you explain it then, Speccy.” The childhood nickname rolls with easy familiarity from his tongue, fitting in a situation that had been a daily activity when they were both kids. “We don’t have Thunderocs anywhere near Insomnia. If Ramuh didn’t send it to kick my ass on Leviathan’s request, then why the hell would it show up here?”

Ignis rubs at the pale skin of Noct’s shoulder, pressing firmly against the muscles and tracing the steam as it turn to drops against the wall, and rolls back down to the tub to start anew. Once Noctis feels relaxed and pliant beneath his hands, he speaks, voice low so as not to disturb the peace they’re sinking into. “Perhaps it was migrating and became lost?” He reasons. His hands trail down along the strong forearms, following the pale shadow of veins against the royal ivory skin to press his hands into Noctis’.

Noctis doesn’t answer, but squeezes in response. When he sits back up, he takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, tilting his head from side to side. When he opens his eyes, he looks less ashamed and more… amused, even if in a somewhat wry fashion. Ignis is relieved.

“I suppose it’s more likely than my own guesses, at least.” He leans forward, and this close he can see the traces of worry as it filters away from Ignis expression. He’s still embarrassed. He probably will be until he can sleep it off, and wake up with the impression that it was all part of a weird dream. But it’s not worth genuinely worrying Iggy over. Nothing is. Their memories of today don’t need to be bitter, and so he won’t make them that way.

He reaches out, his arms still wet but not dripping and winds then around the other man’s shoulders to pull him closer. Tilting his head, he presses his lips against Ignis’ as he’d been longing to do all evening, and indulges in a deep, unhurried kiss.

Wanting to return the previous favour of pleasant sensations, he dips his trimmed nails down the back of Iggy’s neck and dips them just below the collar of his shirt, scritching against the soft skin and tracing patterns with firm precision until he feels his beloved sigh, and relax even further into his touch, ignoring the water still clinging to him in favour of seeking even more contact.

They stay pressed together like that for some time, trading kisses and touches with Noctis aiming to spoil the man in his arms with great success. Ignis follows his movements, little noises and sighs of enjoyment drifting between them until Noctis feels the bath water fade from hot to warm. By the time he finds the will to pull back, Ignis look almost as tussled as he had when Noctis had awoken early that morning, to find him exactly where he’d left him; pressed into their pillows, curled up by his side.

Although the current Ignis is wearing more clothing, obviously.

(Unfortunately.)

He presses a kiss lower, to his neck and then stops, catching his breath. “Hm…”, he nuzzles into the warm crevice, wet hair dampening the collar of the fresh shirt his boyfriend wears. “I’m guessing we should head out about now, right?”

Ignis’ frown borders on a pout, and the lesser used expression is adorable on his face. Noctis wants to pinch his cheeks, but doubts he’d escape such an action without retribution, so he leaves it.

“Yes, I suppose so – the last message I received informed me that the photo shoot will be reorganized for after the attempts to… de-seafood the coronation robe, so to speak. If the specialist cleaning team is successful, we’ll go ahead with it as planned on a later date.”

Noctis pulls the plug from the bath. “And if not?” He stands with a wince, pins and needles spreading through his legs from spending so long sitting in the porcelain tub. He turns the shower on and stretches up while he rinses, enjoying the shot water while he can.

Ignis stands and pockets his phone and keys from where he’d placed them beside the sink. Given that they were to join late, he’d be the one driving Noctis in his own car. The privacy would be enjoyable. “Oddly, when I asked that, the gentleman simply told me that he’d managed such a miracle before, and would be damned if he couldn’t manage it again.”

Noctis cracks an eye open under the stream of water and arches a brow sceptically. “Something worse than North Lucian earth spices? What the hell happened to it?”

Ignis shrugged, staring somewhat shamelessly at his lovers backside.

  


A loud rapping at the door startles them both. They share a look, and Ignis passes a couple of towels to Noctis and before he leaves to see who it is, pulling the bathroom door shut tightly behind him both to avoid allowing steam into the dressing room (and to avoid any visitor seeing parts of the King that only Ignis was allowed to partake of.)

He opens the door, expecting Cor, Clarus, or perhaps a servant.

He doesn’t expect Ravus Nox Fleuret.

“Ah.” Ignis says.

Ravus looks as though someone had thrown a gallon of melted vanilla choc chip ice cream over him, but the truth of the situation was made impossible to ignore by the stench.

The mess was on his shoes. It was in his hair. Ignis felt a shiver in empathy.

“… Oh dear.” Ignis says.

“The hot water in my quarters has temporarily been diverted to the kitchens, whilst they prepared the food for tonight,” he explains, in the voice of a man who was truly on the very brink of losing his composure. “and it will not be reconnected until after seven o’clock this evening. I require the use of the showers in this quarter.“

Ignis nods. Then he remembers to whom he is speaking, and tries to work past the shock for a more appropriate response. “Yes – of course you may, your highness.”

Ravus stares at him. “I would also like to borrow a spare outfit.” His expression is stone. His posture is statuesque.

“Yes,” Ignis manages. “Yes, we will undoubtedly have something in your size. Please, come in.”

He’s barely shut the door when the one to the shower room opens, steam lazily snaking out and Noctis steps into the room clad in several large towels, like an entirely new robe of his own making. He takes one look at Ravus and the response is instant.

“Ravus! _Titan’s_ _ass_ am I glad that I’m not the only who didn’t make it out without cleanly.”

Ravus nods stiffly, clearly none too eager to move while covered as he in evidence of the occurrence. If he’s annoyed by Noctis feeling grateful he also got hit, he doesn’t show it. Ignis needs only wonder why for a moment before he realises that that the Tenebraen royal would have been hit before his own was.

  


“I have a suggestion for the first joint endeavour of our nations with you as King, your majesty.” He says, walking towards the bathroom door. Noctis steps to the side to allow him through, not wanting to make the poor guy wait even an extra minute before he could reach the relief of washing himself clean as Noctis had.

When he reaches it, he grips the handle hard and his voice is thick with determination.

“Together,” he decrees, “we can make sure that no singular image of today, beyond the end of your crowning, is publicised. Neither online nor in print.”

Ignis flexes his fingers around his phone, already preparing the emails he’ll need in his head. Noctis’ eyes appear to glint purple in the dusklit room.

The air of camaraderie is tangible.

* * *

The back of the Regalia is as comfortable as ever, but rather than relaxing as he usually would when his Shield takes the wheel Regis finds himself sinking into the beige leathers with his head in his hands.

“I wouldn’t say it’s a curse, exactly, Sylva-”

“Nonsense, Reggie!” The Queen says with a wave, Luna giggling openly in the front seat. “This kind of thing doesn’t just happen twice in a row without a curse of some form. Have you smashed any mirrors recently?”

“Not that I know of. Nor have I walked beneath any ladders. And there is there any black cats present in the vicinity of the Citadel, unless Noctis has finally managed to sneak one past me somehow.”

“Stepped on any cracks?” Luna asks in a polite voice that carries more than a note of glee.

“Ah, but I’m the father in this case – shouldn’t it be my back that the bad luck would be upon, were that the cause…?”

Sylva leans back and fixes him with an amused look. “Well, perhaps you’ve had your fill of bad luck regarding coronations, and so it was passed down to Noctis. After all, today was thrilling, but yours was unbeatably dramatic.”

Regis feels his face heat up and resists the will to kick his Shield in the back through his chair to urge him for a little more speed. This involved him too, surely he–

“Was it really more dramatic than today, though?” Luna asks pressing a curled finger to her lips and watching the King with deceptively kind eyes through the rear view mirror. On her lap is her phone, and Regis despairs at the contact name ‘ _My Hero_ ’ topping the screen, knowing full well exactly what story is being recounted as he’s tortured for mere sport.

“Oh, absolutely!” Clearly enjoying herself, Sylva crosses her legs and smiles smugly. “A wail, a splash – Clarus throwing his plate of cake to the ground, and then a running _leap_! Directly into the–!”

“Pond.” Regis finishes for her, putting the final nail in his coffin himself, resigned to his fate. “He dove directly into the palace garden pond.” He had hoped that by having Noctis coronation indoors, he would be safe from the elements of nature.

Perhaps their line _was_ cursed.

Sylva nods with far too much enthusiasm. “Yes! Because you fell in, Reggie. Tripped right up on that robe.”

“Yes…” he answers again, sinking down further against his seat. “Yes, I did do that, didn’t I?” He admits. “I was clumsy.”

Sylva stares at him with confidence that shakes away all of the usual charm Regis would use to save himself from this kind of social situation.

“Actually, you were cute. Especially with all that pond weed draped over you. If your Shield hadn’t dived in to bridal carry you out, I was next in line to do so.”

**Author's Note:**

> wahhhhhh... so much fun to write. If I missed any typos, please let me know!


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